


Let's Marvin Gaye [and get it on]

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Porn with Feelings, very attractive goal scoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6009757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The last snap is Dylan’s dimly lit bed, one long skinny leg stretched toward the end of the bed and one bent at the knee.  <i>Call me when you’re home</i>.</p>
<p>Connor doesn’t drop everything, but he also doesn’t put his dishes in the dishwasher."</p>
<p>In which Connor and Dylan talk on the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Marvin Gaye [and get it on]

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be quick and easy phone sex. Instead it is phone sex and feelings and inappropriate references to Alex DeBrincat's eyebrows. Set after Connor's return to the lineup, later than I wanted because feelings, the goal mentioned is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9ru_R7Qjjo), as if there was a question.
> 
> Title shamelessly stolen from the Charlie Puth song of the same name. Featuring Meghan Trainor. Which I do not want to like, and yet here we are.

Connor gets home late. He does media and tries to keep the giddy grin off his face. He does trainer approved and supervised warm-downs under the watchful eye of Chris and gets poked and prodded and range-of-motioned practically to death by TD and prodded again after TD watches Hallsy gleefully jump on his back in the hallway and stretch his sweaty under armor over Connor’s head.

The silence in his truck is disconcerting after the roar of Rexall, the buzz of the locker room, the rush of adrenaline in his ears. His phone keeps lighting up on the seat next to him. When he shoved it in his pocket on the way out he had 138 text messages, 3 missed calls. By the looks of it that number is growing.

He scrolls through his messages while he absently eats 2 peanut-butter sandwiches and drinks 2 glasses of water and a bottle of Biosteel.

He doesn’t really reply to anything, they’re flying to Ottawa after practice tomorrow and he can respond from the plane. It’s late in the GTA, in Erie, life in the Western Conference means that usually he’s getting home when most of the people in his phone are drifting into their second cycle of REM.

He has a lot of snaps, the little red number hovering over the ghost feels a little overwhelming. He honestly feels the same way about his texts.

He reads Dylan’s snaps because he can’t not. Because he misses Dylan. Because the messages he did read were mostly Dylan’s, a running commentary of the game and a shocking number of emoticons and one text warning him to check his snaps alone. There’s the normal stuff, Brinks dancing around with his hat on sideways yelling about assists, a video of the TV showing Connor’s goal captioned _boom, pregnant,_ a video of Dylan’s ATB commercial and someone throwing a water bottle at Dylan when it ends.

The last snap is Dylan’s dimly lit bed, one long skinny leg stretched toward the end of the bed and one bent at the knee, his dick visibly hard in gray boxer-briefs. _Call me when you’re home._

Connor doesn’t drop everything, but he also doesn’t put his dishes in the dishwasher.

"I appreciate that you admitted in front of God and the internet and the entire Edmonton media that you've been grumpy," Dylan's voice is sleep-quiet, muffled, Connor imagines him buried in the blankets on his bed, flopped on his stomach, one foot hooked over the end of his bed. It’s weird to think that he gave that interview like 3 hours ago and it’s already on the internet, Dylan’s already watched it. There’s a lot of weird in the NHL, he’s still getting used to it.

"I appreciate that I read my texts so I didn't show the whole team your dick snap by accident," Connor tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder while he unbuttons his shirt and tosses it in the hamper.

"My dick is flawless and even the Edmonton Oilers deserve to see it Davo,"

Connor laughs low and easy and kicks his pants off too, pulling on sweats and a cutoff tshirt. “Maybe I don’t want to share,”

“You should share,” it’s late in Edmonton, later in Erie, but Dylan’s still quick with the response, “half of Canada has a boner for your hockey, I’m just making mine publicly available.”

“So it’s my hockey that makes you hot,” Connor teases.

Dylan buries a frustrated groan in his pillow and Connor grins up at the ceiling in his empty bedroom. “You, Davo,” Dylan grinds out, “You make me hot.”

Connor hums in response, flopping onto his bed, face warm against the cool fabric of his pillows, body bouncing slightly as he balanced his phone between his ear and the pillow.

“It’s so late, but I have all this energy,” Connor admits, pointing his toes toward the foot of the bed, hands skating restlessly across the soft fabric of his flannel sheets. 

“I have a solution for that,” Dylan offers it matter-of-factly, but Connor still snorts at the blatant innuendo.

His breath speeds up when he thinks about how he’d be using that energy if Dylan was here. Thinks about their bodies slamming together, about rutting against each other and pressing their mouths together, rolling around and getting tangled in the sheets. 

“Miss your mouth,” Connor says it quietly and he rides Dylan’s little gasp, heat pooled low in his belly, picturing Dylan’s stupid, gorgeous face while he brushes a hand against his stomach, reaching up to thumb at his own nipples. 

“I miss my mouth on you,” Dylan’s still so casual, like Connor isn’t rock-hard and leaking all over the ratty cut-off sweatpants he’s too embarrassed to even wear out to take the trash out. “Leaving marks where no one can see them, spelling my name on your shoulder blades, the inside of your thighs.” Connor groans at that, unable to do anything but imagine Dylan, months ago, grin wide and open, sliding his hands up the back of Connor’s combine shorts, hooking his hands and yanking them down to set his teeth in the winter-white skin of Connor’s thigh, the triumphant look on Dylan’s face at the purple mark, ringed by teeth, high enough that no one will ever see it by Connor will always know it’s there.

“You aren’t wearing underwear are you?” Dylan asks, and Connor recognizes the sly grin in his voice.

“Nope,” Connor pops the end of the word and gives in, sliding a hand into his pants to cup his dick.

“I love knowing that you’re the hockey savior in a major Canadian market and at least half the time you can’t even be bothered to put on underwear in the morning.” Connor slides his feet up the sheets, splaying his knees wide and hissing at the burn of the stretch.

“What are you doing?” 

“Touching myself,” Dylan huffs a laugh at that.

“You’re supposed to tell me where jerk,” Dylan’s still amused and Connor wants to mess him up, make him crack the way he’s always able to make Connor crack.

“Fucking into my hand,” he admits, and with that the facade crumbles and Dylan groans, the sound lighting up Connor up. Dylan so easy with the same noises that make Connor bite his lip, always worried about who might hear. “Thinking about you.” Dylan exhales loudly at that, a rush of air into the microphone on his phone.

“Are you touching yourself,” Connor knows the answer, but he wants to hear it. Wants to know Dylan’s just as into this as he is.

“Of course I am, Davo, oh my god,” Dylan moans again, “I’ve been hard since the second period, I had to sit with a pillow over my lap so I wouldn’t traumatize the rookies. Brinksy kept looking at me with his stupid eyebrows like I wasn’t fooling anyone.”

“No talking about Brinks during phone sex,” Connor gasps, straining to hear, hoping that he can almost make out the slick sound of skin on skin.

“I can’t help it,” Dylan’s gasping too now, “I swear sometimes you do things on the ice and he just looks at me and I feel like there’s a sign over my head that says ‘thinking about banging first overall pick Connor McDavid’ that everyone can see.”

“This is not even sexy,” Connor arches his hips, the tightening of his balls a clear denial of that truth.

“Banging you is absolutely sexy,” Dylan laughs, “I would you know. I want you so much sometimes I can’t even decide if I’m going to jerk off to your ass or your mouth or us together.”

“Us together,” Connor answers immediately, “I want it so much, want you in me Dyls, so much,” Dylan’s not answering now, just the quiet gasping chirps that means he’s close, “not quick either, I want you to go slow and make me feel it. Make me swear at you, want to leave nail marks in your back, want you to go so hard,” Dylan’s breath hitches when he comes and the familiarity of that sound just makes the feeling of Connor’s own hand that much more intense. 

Connor orgasm tremors, so close to the surface now as he listened to Dylan. The phone slipping from his shoulder as he pressed his feet into the comforter wrinkled at the end of the bed, his muscles shuddering with the dull ache of hockey and orgasms as his hips arched into his hand.

“I’d go hard,” Dylan’s voice is sweet and low, syrupy warm and Connor wants to sink into it, drown in it, “I know I’m not supposed to. But I want you to feel it tomorrow, just a little when you really push yourself, when you’re screaming up the ice trying to split the D, I want you to remember me inside you.”

Connor sobs into his pillow and comes.

“I wish you were here,” it’s been a good 5 minutes, Connor’s feet are cold and his sweats are a lost cause, shoved down to the foot of the bed where he’ll deal with them another day.

“Just because I’d get up and get a towel,” There’s a laugh in Dylan’s voice, a laugh that Connor misses almost as much as he misses Dylan’s hands, quick and sure, as knowledgeable on Connor’s body as they are wrapped around a hockey stick.

“No,” Connor muttered, frustrated, stretching a hand behind his head “I wish you had been here so I knew what you looked like in my bed here.” And that’s the heart of the confession for Connor. He misses the things he’s not sure he’s supposed to miss, he misses waking up with Dylan, pressed together warm and familiar and jockeying for space while they’re brushing their teeth, Dylan with a mouthful of toothpaste mocking his stupid morning sex hair. He misses Dylan, warm and comfortable on the bus, wrapped together in the middle of the night, his eyes heavy and Dylan’s laugh rumbling against his chest while they watch stupid shit on Netflix. Dylan bearing down in the face-off circle, his face with the same serious intensity as the first time he’d obviously and intentionally flexed his thigh against Connor’s traitorously hardening dick while they wrestled.

“Are you by yourself?” Dylan’s voice is quiet.

“Yes?” Connor doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but he’s wrung out and exhausted and a little orgasm-dumb and this conversation isn’t going the way it’s supposed to. He tucks a hand behind his head and kicks at the comforter until he can hook a foot in it and drag it up and around him. 

The house is quiet around him. Taylor’s with Jordan, Luke’s on waivers in the morning and Connor should drag his ass out of bed and at least throw some dress shirts in his suitcase. But instead he hits the facetime button and waits, because what he really wants is to lay here, half buried in pillows and the blanket pulled up around his ears, and look at Dylan’s face.

The quicksilver flash of Dylan’s familiar smile is the first thing he sees, Dylan fills his phone, shirtless and stretched out, dark sheets tucked around his waist, all familiar long limbs and sleek wiry muscles.

“Jesus fuck Connor your arms,” Dylan keeps smiling and Connor’s dick twitches against his thigh.

He’s not wired anymore, the energy sliding out of his body in favor of the bone-deep satisfaction of his boy on the phone and the familiar exhaustion of hockey settling into his sore muscles. He stares at Dylan, trying to imprint his half-shadowed face into memory so he can close his eyes and pretend they’re together.

“I love you,” it spills out, unintentional but no less true. And maybe that’s easier, there’s no time to think about it, to worry about what Dylan’s going to think.

“You’re such an asshole,” Dylan is smiling softly, so he’s not super worried, but Connor’s never said those words to someone who wasn’t biologically obligated to love him, “we aren’t even in the same time-zone, you have the Habs and Isles and hockey day in Canada and I have 6 hours to Sarnia and London on the way home and here you are saying shit like that and I can’t even kiss you.”

Connor breathes a little sigh of relief. But he rolls onto his side and curls into himself a little, tucking a hand under his pillow and propping the phone on the blankets.

“I love you too Davo,” Dylan pauses, swallows, “Connor,” he amends, and pulls the phone a little closer like phone proximity will somehow, magically, translate into them actually being closer together.

They lay there, staring at each other until Dylan’s eyes start to blink closed. “You should sleep,” Connor says lowly, “you have stuff tomorrow.”

“So do you,” Dylan yawns widely. “But I like this. It’s like having you here but with less cuddling.”

“I like cuddling,” Connor grumbles.

“I like you,” Dylan grins back.

“My phone’s at 19%, stay with me until it dies?” Connor's too tired not to ask for exactly what he wants

“Yea,” Dylan smiles softly at him and burrows deeper into his pillows.


End file.
